


At Last

by Lhugy_for_short



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1960s, Awkward Flirting, By which I mean these two ineffable idiots, Dancing, JUST KISS ALREADY, M/M, Mutual Pining, Natural Disasters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 03:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19714909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lhugy_for_short/pseuds/Lhugy_for_short
Summary: You go too fast for me, Crowley.The words were on the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue. A resounding answer, one that wasn’t exactly a ‘no,’ more like a ‘not yet,’ but which still would have brought about an end to the conversation.Instead, despite his holiest judgement, Aziraphale slowly drew the passenger seat belt down across his midsection, and clicked it into place. “Do try not to crash us into anything, would you?"(Or, 'What if Aziraphale hadn't delivered The Line and had just gone home with Crowley like he should have?')





	At Last

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at Good Omens fic (: Sorry in advance. I watched the show, then read the book, and I still can't get over how perfect these two are for each other. Ineffable idiot husbands in loveTM, my new favorite obsession.

**[Soho, London. 1967]**

_You go too fast for me, Crowley._

The words were on the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue. A resounding answer, one that wasn’t exactly a ‘no,’ more like a ‘not yet,’ but which still would have brought about an end to the conversation. There would be frowning and an attempt to stop him from leaving the car, and in the end they both would have gone their separate ways until fate (or scheming) brought them together again. 

That would have been for the best, Aziraphale knew. Not only because of the obvious - that he was an angel and Crowley was a demon, and it was a miracle that neither of their head offices had noticed anything _untoward_ yet - but also because, frankly speaking, he was _scared_. 

A pair of yellow eyes watched him expectantly over the rim of dark shades. Crowley wasn’t patient by nature (see: _demon)_ , yet when it came to Aziraphale he always seemed to have all the time in the world. Six thousand years of it and counting, in fact. A hint of color rose to the angel’s face. Maybe he did, he realized. Maybe they both did. Maybe that was the point. 

After all, by human standards, they’d been taking things awfully slow for a very long time. 

And so, despite his holiest judgement, Aziraphale slowly drew the passenger seat belt down across his midsection, and clicked it into place. “Do try not to crash us into anything, would you? Living or otherwise, please.” 

“You really got to learn to trust me more,” Crowley grinned, in a way that said he had no intention to start obeying speed limits that night or ever. “So where’re we going? Your place or mine?” 

The Bentley’s ancient engine growled to life. This was it, then. There could be no backing down now. Still, Aziraphale’s metaphysical heart thudded with anxiety, with the fear that, once again, he was somehow making the wrong choice.

“Yours?” he suggested quietly. 

“Ah.” Beside him, the demon’s eyebrows gave away his genuine surprise. “Er, right. Yeah, ‘course. My place.” 

He paused for the briefest of moments, perhaps to give Aziraphale the chance to change his mind, to play it off as a ruse, _haha you got me_. The angel, however, simply stared through the windscreen where the neon lights illuminated the road ahead. And Crowley swallowed. 

“Right. Off we go, then.” 

* * *

Aziraphale had only been to the modern, garishly expensive building Crowley called home a handful of times over the last few decades. He could make the excuse that time and circumstance usually brought them together in more clandestine places (like the bandstand, the park where they could feed the ducks, or even once behind a staircase inside Buckingham Palace). But the truth of the matter was that Aziraphale had never felt comfortable surrounded by sharp lines and drab, grey walls. He much preferred the worn wood and slightly crooked floors of his bookshop, not to mention the glorious smell. To him, home was his own little slice of Heaven on Earth. 

Minus the Sound of Music, of course. 

No, somehow, of the two of them, it was Crowley who had always been better suited to the human trends of the times. Everything about him, from the tight black pants to the length of his hair to the grey shag carpet in his living room, seemed right out of some magazine that used the word ‘groovy’ a lot. (For the record, Aziraphale had only recently learned the correct spelling of that word; the first time he’d ever heard it, he’d thought it was some kind of meat sauce.) Even the music, which flickered to life on a new-fangled stereo system the second the demon sauntered through the front door, was fast, loud, and entirely too modern for his sensibilities.

“I...like what you’ve done with the place,” Aziraphale said anyway, over the speakers. 

Crowley beamed at him. “Yeah? Big fan of the rug, m’self. Too bad it’ll be out of style in a couple of years.”

“Right, what a pity.... O-oh, _please_ be careful with that, Crowley!” 

“ _Yes_ , yes, I am.” 

The pink tartan thermos of holy water looked about as out-of-place in the room as Aziraphale himself. It was stiff and old-fashioned, and the way Crowley set it down with both hands, gingerly, onto the glass-top coffee table gave the impression that it was deceptively fragile, as well. “Sweet of you to worry about me, though, angel,” the demon continued, flashing a smirk and clapping his palms together. “Right. Drinks?” 

Then he walked (if the way he moved could ever really be called _walking_ ) over to a cabinet hidden behind a panel in the wall, and waved it open. Shelves packed impossibly full with different colored liquids in different colored bottles greeted them both. “What’ll y’ave?” 

Being nervous was very un-Crowley-like, Aziraphale decided. The energy of his frazzled emotions followed him across the room like a static charge, buzzing, _fluttering_ , setting off entropy all around him. Angels could read these things, of course. Yet even without his supernatural gifts, Aziraphale would have to be a fool not to notice the way the demon’s voice kept jumping around in pitch every time he spoke. 

“Erm, perhaps just some wine, if you’ve got it?” 

An airy scoff - of _course_ he had it, what kind of question was that? - before Crowley went digging around in one of the shelves. “Y’know, I just realized. It’s been ages since the last time you were here. What, like, ten years?” 

“Eleven, I believe,” Aziraphale shrugged. He brushed a layer of dust off an otherwise pristine sofa cushion before sinking down into it. “I tried to talk you out of Sputnik.” 

Glasses clinked as they were filled atop a counter that hadn’t been there several moments ago. “Aw, right. That space business. Well, if it’s any consolation, the Russians and Americans haven’t blown each other to bits yet, _you’re welcome very much._ ”

“Oh, _really_ , Crowley.” 

He landed on the open spot on the sofa next to Aziraphale, each hand wrapped around a drink and one extended temptingly in the angel’s direction. Red wine, possibly a Bordeaux if his nose hadn’t lost its touch. He brightened instantly. “My dear fellow, you certainly know how to spoil me.” 

“Is that what it is.” The demon muttered something else into his own glass - some sort of sweet-smelling concoction with a higher alcohol content than any one thing in his cabinet - and continued to stare into it even after he’d taken a long sip. Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice he was tapping the heel of his boot on the carpet. 

The angel swirled the wine in his glass a few times. “So. Now what?” 

“Hm?” Yellow eyes flicked in his direction, then back again. Crowley cleared his throat. 

“I mean, now that you’ve got the...the _you-know-what_.” 

“You-- What, you mean _that_?” the demon gestured pointedly. Not far from where his other boot had come to rest on the coffee table, the tartan thermos very nearly perked up at the mention. 

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at it in suspicion. “At least tell me what you plan to use it for. I can’t help but feel like an accomplice in...whatever you’re plotting. Something dangerous, I would imagine.”

“It’s just insurance, angel. I told you. ‘Case things go tits up with the nasties downstairs and I need a way to save my skin.” 

Aziraphale didn’t follow, not really. But he looked from the thermos to Crowley, sighed, and decided he was just going to have to trust him. “Well, I’ll be in trouble too if anyone finds out I helped you. Maybe I should look into bottling some fire and brimstone to carry around in my back pocket. You know, just in case.” 

Crowley’s sunglasses slid so far down the bridge of his nose that he finally just took them off. For a long moment, his bright yellow eyes watched Aziraphale unblinking. Then, slowly, he raised one finger into the air between them, and blew on it until the tip began to glow. “Anyone ever comes after you, angel,” he said, the light darkening to a deep, orange-gold. “You let me know.”

The glowing finger inched closer. Aziraphale sucked in a breath as Crowley tapped it, of all places, to the side of his wine glass. The Bordeaux inside rippled, and instantly began to bubble with supernatural heat. 

“O-oh, _dear_.” 

“Relax,” he grinned. “Just mulling it a bit. Can’t imagine what other use an angel could possibly have for brimstone, amirite?”

There was that fluttering again. Or maybe it was a buzzing, Aziraphale was having a hard time telling the difference now that he was the one grasping for a hold on his emotions. He was fairly certain that aside from the wine (which smelled absolutely divine now), there was nothing more he wanted than to throw his arms around Crowley and thank him from the bottom of his heart. 

Thank him for caring. For existing, and for being here, with him. For offering him a ride. For having a good heart, a _better heart than most angels_ , though he would never admit it. For giving him something to believe in that wasn’t _written in the cosmos_ or _bafflingly ineffable._

Aziraphale wanted to throw his arms around Crowley, but instead he did the next best thing. 

He asked him to dance. 

“What? With you?” the demon’s eyes widened. “But I thought you lot all, _er_ ….” 

“Not all of us are made of left feet, you know. What do you say?” 

The nervous buzzing around Crowley swelled for a moment, burst, and finally left him with a singular emotion that Aziraphale was much, much more familiar with. “...I say we’re gonna need a better song.” 

As he rose to his feet, he snapped his fingers twice. The stereo obeyed like an eager pup, scratching the current record to a halt and switching, almost imperceptibly, to a slow, humming violin intro instead. 

Aziraphale found the change much more appealing to his tastes. “ _Ah_. I actually know this one.” 

“Yeah? Always kinda reminded me of you.” Crowley coughed once. Brushed his knuckles on the front of his black shirt, then held his palm out towards Aziraphale. “Something to do with heaven, or...something. Y’know.”

“Careful, Crowley.” The angel took his hand with a sweet smile. “Your _niceness_ is showing.”

“ _Bah.”_

They danced together - at least, as well as two celestial beings with very little experience in actual dancing could manage, anyway - hand in hand across the doomed shag rug for what felt like a lifetime. Aziraphale smiled and Crowley watched him down the length of his nose, and occasionally one of them would apologize for stepping on the other’s toes. But as a crisp, honeyed voice crooned of love in the background, they both experienced, perhaps for the first time, a taste of being truly and utterly lost in the moment.

_I found a dream that I can speak to_

_A dream that I can call my own_

_I found a thrill to press my cheek to_

_A thrill I've never known_

Not too fast. Not too slow. Aziraphale curled his fingers around Crowley’s palm, and found it surprisingly easy to pull him just a little bit closer. 

_You smiled and then the spell was cast_

_And here we are in Heaven_

Crowley’s voice blended with the music as he sang along. 

_For you are mine...at last_

**Author's Note:**

> The song is "At Last" by Etta James. I dare you to listen to it and _not_ picture these two slow dancing very badly.


End file.
